Remembering you, Dad

Here is the letter/conversation I read at dad's memorial services last week:

Dear dad:

If you were here today, and one of us was to ask how bad things—like cancer—happen to good people—like you, for instance, you would listen sincerely and nod.

You would remind us that long ago the world was broken, and that God never intended things to be broken like this. That it was people—just like us—who made it this way. So death isn’t what we’re made for. And that’s why it hurts like crazy. “That’s why it doesn’t seem right,” you would say. “Because it isn’t right.”

And then you would tell us this story of how all of us will face death—some earlier, some later, but because of one amazing rescue on our behalf, we don’t have to fear it at all.

You would smile and say the moment we breathe our last breath, like you did last Thursday, is the moment the life God intended for us really begins. This is the story of what one God-man did, sacrificing his life in place of ours, so that we could be forgiven of everything we’ve ever thought, done, or said that was wrong. And I can almost hear you now, because you’ve said it so often before: Jesus loved you, Suzie, so much that he paid with his life so you could have life—life FOREVER. A life filled with joy and free of pain.

You repeated this story hundreds of times—and you shared it in different ways, depending on who you were talking to at the time. But the heart and the truth of the story never changed.

Dad, I’ll admit, this story still sounds bigger than life and grander than our wildest dreams, but you staked your life on the belief that it is absolutely true. Truer than anything else you knew.

This story shaped your heart and informed your service. It altered the way you responded to those who meant you harm, and led to a lifestyle of servanthood. It kept you from caring about this world’s wealth and meant that you received the greatest joy from seeing others changed by the story of God’s love for us.

And if you were here right now, you would speak up to remind us that you also had faults and missteps, errors in judgment and times when you acted selfishly. And that, you would say, is exactly why God’s forgiveness and pursuit of us is so amazing; it’s why it changes everything. Because we are a messed-up lot with burdens that sometime threaten to undo us, but God’s story of rescue can bring hope where there is heartache.

This is the truth, dad: you didn’t want to leave us, not yet. You felt you still had ministry to do and people to love and you wondered why in the world your heavenly Father would send you to heaven now. Honestly, it just didn’t seem right.

But as you grew weaker, and we saw the future more clearly, we began to move toward this Story we have grown to love and believe in more than anything else. Dad, once we knew you were headed home, away from us, we began to talk about the breathtaking beauty and reality of the place where you will spend the rest of your days.

We even got excited with you about your homegoing at times, even though we dreaded the thought of saying goodbye.

Our hope and faith has been centered on something we could not see at all. Actually, the character Puddleglum from CS Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia may describe it best, as he tells the White Witch why he will keep on believing, though he doesn’t see the world of Narnia:

“Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one . . . That’s why I’m going to stand by the play world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia.”

But there IS a Narnia, dad, isn’t there? Death and evil have been defeated, haven’t they? If you were here today, I have this feeling you would tell us its streets are paved with gold, that its filled with people you knew here on this side who are loving on you. And I think you would also tell us that the sights and sounds you have now trump the best moments you ever experienced or dreamed about on this side of eternity.

I smile, dad, as I imagine you wearing a t-shirt that says, “Wish you were here.” How I do wish we were there, dad. And one day we will be—because we choose to trust in what we can’t see—in what God has done on our behalf.

With love and anticipation,

Your daughter, Suzie